Summer
by Locke
Summary: My first HP! After a tramatic second year at Hogwarts, Hermione is glad to be jetting off to Paris... What she doesn't realise is that the holiday will force her to face something she has been trying for years to deny; and what awaits her in the city of h
1. Default Chapter Title

**Summer**

** **

The Gatwick Airport reception desk was surrounded by throngs of people, vast crowds milling and bustling as they swarmed as one towards the attendants, the drone of noise reaching fever pitch as news of the latest delays spread like a house fire.

A newsstand stood in one corner, where a balding man stood screaming the latest headlines, scattering the people around him. A long, low bar was strung across the far wall, steaming food on top each of the nearby tables. And between the shops, which sold everything one might need on a holiday except for the bare essentials, were the notice boards, swamped by row upon row of information on the upcoming arrivals and departures.

All but one of these rows was neat and ordered, the edges of the papers lined with a clinical precision, the ink clear and bold. They stretched across the wall from top to bottom, covering every inch.

Almost every inch. On the forth row from the bottom, seven spaces in, there was a gap, the exact size of the other papers. There was no sign of anything ever having been there: no pin stuck in the board with a tatter of paper stuck around the edge; no torn, crumpled notice trampled to the floor beneath.

No one bothered to ask why there was a gap on the noticeboard. Amongst the frenzied hustle of the airport, no one had the time or the inclination to bother.

But at twenty-to-eleven, one warm Monday morning in July, a girl of about thirteen stood at the foot of the noticeboard, staring quizzically up at the gap. Her bushy hair swung like a pendulum down her back as she turned and made her way towards the reception.

Thirty minutes later, Hermione Granger and her parents hurried out onto the concrete pavilion beside the runways, sackfuls of luggage trailing behind them. Gigantic shapes of polished white roared across the sky, gleaming as their paintwork met the molten gold of the sun.

'Are you sure about this, dear?' Mrs. Granger muttered anxiously.

'Of course she is,' Hermione's father cut in, sighing tiredly. 'Why would she want us to pay the full price when she can get us there at a discount - and in half the time?' 

'Because she could get in trouble if - '

'She's a witch, dear. You know that. Nobody's going to catch us.'

Before Hermione and her mother could catch their breaths, Mr. Granger scooped up his luggage and resumed the march, his loping strides thudding against the smooth concrete.

'Where did you say the runway was, dear?'

Hermione dropped her bags, extending an arm and pointing a thin finger, nodding towards their destination. Except there was nothing there. The runways ended just metres from where they were standing; the towering buildings, rising to break the cloudless sky, were thinning out to make way for rickety wooden storage sheds.

Her father nodded. 'Right, then off we go.'

The wind from a speeding plain whipped Hermione's ponytail around her face as she marched on, sending strands of hair billowing like flame into her eyes. Her father was some distance ahead; he always walked in front, leaving Hermione and her mother trailing behind. 

As though they had popped a giant, invisible bubble, the air around them twisted and crackled. Hermione's vision rippled, the colours fading to faint smears before resolving a moment later to perfect clarity; and a slight tingle ran down her spine as she felt the magical barrier around Runway Twelve and Nine Fourteenths break.

Her father blinked. She saw it in the corner of her eye, the slight sense of discomfort that shone vividly against his taciturn features, just for a second – before he spun on his heel and continued on his way.

But now, the vast, empty space that sprawled in all directions ahead of them was no longer empty.

The biggest, grandest plane that Hermione had ever seen lay waiting, its body fashioned from what looked like shining glass, wrapped in beads of gold from the low sun. Even after everything that she had seen in the two or so years she'd been practising as a witch, she found her mouth hanging open.

'All aboard, all aboard. Flight 70A will be departing shortly. Flight 70A will be departing shortly. All aboard…'

Hermione took her mother's hand and dragged her forward, letting the suitcases drag with a granite scratch over the ground. Suddenly, a strange, blue glow suffused them; pulling them away from the family's grip and making them leap and dance in the air, before flinging them towards the aircraft. A hatch in the side opened just in time, leaving the luggage to land in a perfect pile amongst the other cases inside

The next ten minutes sped by.

They were sitting in a row inside the glass airplane, watching through narrowed eyes as the craft shimmered in the glow of the sun, a million pinpricks of light streaming over the curved, transparent surfaces. Clouds whooshed by underneath, smears of white shredded into tiny shrouds by the wings of the plane.

Hermione, the star pupil of her House, Gryffindor, if not of all Hogwarts, allowed her thoughts to drift as slanted beams of light flickered across her face. After the dangers she had faced during the year, it felt good to be leaving everything behind, speeding away to a new country, to a grand city packed with sights that she had always dreamed of seeing. 

She sat back, resting her head against her cushioned seat, closing her eyes and letting the warmth play over her. A few things, she would miss: Harry and Ron, she would especially look forward to catching up with. But her time at Hogwarts had had her so absorbed that she had almost forgotten what it was like to be back amongst Muggles. Back with her parents.

'The man's coming along, dear,' muttered Mr. Granger, no doubt glad to be given any excuse to take his eyes away from what could only tentatively be labelled as the floor. 

'Dad - '

'Do you want us to get caught?'

Her mother touched her father gently on the arm. 'Maybe we should have just picked the… the Muggle flight.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Hermione doesn't mind putting herself out for her family, not after all that's done for her. Do you, sweet?'

Dutifully but resignedly, she shook her head. 'No.'

The steward strode down the aisle, his footsteps tapping against the glass, leaning over and muttering to each passenger in turn. He waved a short, black wand at the people who showed interest in his trade, smiling and holding his hand out for payment as food and drink appeared in the trays in front of their seats.

At last, he reached the Grangers. Hermione's father nearly ordered a coke, before interrupted and asked for the nearest magical equivalent. The steward stepped back as a cup popped into existence, containing what looked like a sprinkling of fine powder.

Mr. Granger's eyes widened ever so slightly. 

'It's a new mixture, sir. Drogo's Root. Stops the stuff from getting airsick.'

Mr. Granger's eyes widened further.

Hermione felt her heat beat faster. She erupted in a coughing fit, glancing over at the cup as she bent at the chest, whispering a faint incantation between her chokes.

The powder glowed a bright, fiery red, crackling as it sparkled and slowly faded into a dull liquid.

'Is your daughter all right?' The steward leant over, concern deepening the lines in his forehead. A passenger across the aisle, a youngish woman with, short black hair settling in curls around her neck, was also watching Hermione, also visibly concerned.

Trying not to stop coughing too suddenly, Hermione straightened up. She desperately tried to force the steward's attention away, pushing money into his hand and mumbling that she was fine, and that neither she nor mother wanted any further refreshments.

Shaking his head in bemusement, the steward walked on, scratching at his greying tufts of hair.

Once he was out of earshot, Mrs. Granger turned to her husband.

'You were lucky then, you were! Nearly caught you out, he did. Fancy a proper wizard not knowing how to mix an in-flight drink. It's probably child's-play, even for someone of Hermione's age!' She gave her daughter a reassuring hug. 'You did very well, dear. I'm sorry we even tried to get onboard this thing.'

'I'm not,' muttered her father. 'Do you have any idea how much her books for next year are likely to cost? Do you? It's just as well she can save us a bit of money every now and then. If she's really as good as her teachers are saying, she shouldn't need to make such an exhibition to cover a simple spell like that anyway…'

Hermione let her thoughts reclaim her, deciding that thinking to herself was far easier than facing her father, especially when he was in one of those moods.

She felt a pang of anger tug at her. Here she was, jetting off to the place of her dreams in a glass airplane, surrounded almost entirely by her own sort. All whilst Harry was stuck at home with the Dursleys, too afraid even to mention magic. And _she_, Hermione, was feeling self-pity.

Her parents accepted her for what she was. They let her practise; let her do what she must to get the grades. Her father especially encouraged her, pushed her even, made sure she was living up to her potential. Hermione knew her friends teased her about her success – but her parents, her father in particular, looked so happy whenever she had done well. She should be thankful that she wasn't locked away each summer, barred from her interests.

'Light my cigar, would you dear,' she felt a hushed voice whisper in her ear.

The low hum of the spells required to keep the aircraft flying sung to her in low, dulcet tones, throbbing gently through her body. She shut out the noise around her and curled up against the soft, cushioned chair.

Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

Flight 90A glided effortlessly through the endless blue void, patches of green and brown speeding by underneath so fast that the countryside blurred into oily smudges of colour. The fields gave way to a gentle blue, the caps of the waves glistening as the sunlight rolled over them. The golden light washing over the passengers grew stronger as the plane flew further south, until, at last, they once again saw the reassuring shades of land whirr by and could see that they had almost reached their destination.

Hermione awoke to her father nudging her arm. 'We're minutes away from Paris, dear.'

She yawned, the distant moan of the vehicle sapping her strength. She stretched her arms as she rose to a proper sitting position, her heart starting to beat gradually faster as she realised that, in less than half-an-hours time, she would be in Paris.

The dark-haired woman sitting across the aisle smiled at Hermione as she rubbed at her bleary eyes. 

Suddenly, the nose of the plane dipped, making Hermione's stomach lurch. She struggled to remain in her seat as the craft plunged downwards, the air around her shimmering as the light streamed off the glass curves, the ground rising at an alarming speed. Mr. Granger looked terrified, fear scrawled all over his face.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the turbulence vanished. The magic coursing through the engines sighed as it slowly dissipated, letting the aircraft rumble to a gradual halt on the Parisian Runway.

Ten minutes later, they had jumped from the plane and made their way back through the bubble shrouding the magical runway. They made their way across the huge, concrete runways - which looked to Hermione disappointingly similar to the ones back in England – and over to the baggage collection desk, Mr. Granger whispering to Hermione that, seeing as there was a wizard airline, it was ridiculous that there was no similar, three-times-as-fast reception desk. Hermione nodded, leaving it to her mother to point out that they shouldn't really have been using the wizard airline in the first place, and that their daughter could have sacrificed her career for them.

Before Mr. Granger could reply, the intercom buzzed with static, a crackly voice announcing that their luggage was ready for collection.

Hermione's father grunted as he hauled their largest suitcase out from the pile around the conveyor belt. Beads of sweat appeared around his forehead as he tightened his grip on the handle, the strap digging into his skin. 'Thank God,' he whispered to Hermione, 'you'll be able to make this lighter for me once we've left the airport. I feel sorry for those poor saps without witches for daughters.'

She nodded again. Mentioning the Ministry of Magic to her father for the thousand-and-_oneth_ time obviously wasn't going to make any difference.

With that, they began their journey out of the airport and onto the streets of Paris. The wide, electric doors opened with a hiss as they let them out, allowing the warmth of the sun to shine down on them and light the broad, bustling street.

The woman from the airplane watched them leave. She drew a mobile phone from her pocket and started to talk.


	2. Default Chapter Title

## Summer, Part Two

_ _

## By Locke

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who read Part One, which I recommend you look at before reading this, if you want to know what's going on! Not much seems to happen in this part, at least at first, but it's essential as a transition bit before the real plot kicks into gear. Which it will in Part Three :)

Many, many thanks to the people who reviewed Part One, and to Abi especially, whose fanaticism and imagination make her a constant source of inspiration! If only I were half as quick :)

Anyway, enjoy, and please review!__

_ _

_ _

_In the City:___

Paris.

Even during the short walk from the airport to the hotel, Hermione saw enough to convince her that her dream to visit this city had not been unfounded.

The _Rue des Epées _cut through the Western quarter of the capital, a long gash through the city with other streets and roads branching off every few metres. Cars and bikes beeped their horns in a cacophony of noise as they sped onwards, rolling down the road in a blur of activity. 

Hermione winced as she felt the light streaming from the edges of the brick buildings catch on her face. The long rows of shops and houses ran parallel to the road, far grander in design than anything she had seen outside Diagon Alley in London, the architecture more deliberate, more refined. The buildings loomed above her, groping for the bright, blue sky that stretched endlessly over the rows of slating roofs, the sun a fierce crest of gold spraying tendrils of fire over the brickwork.

She turned out onto the pavement, her parents beside her. Her father had told her in his usual voice, calm but very stern, to cast a quick spell over their luggage, making the bulging bags and cases light enough to be slung casually over one shoulder. As they confirmed the direction of the hotel and started to move slowly down the street, Hermione wheeled around in a fit of paranoia, fearing to spot a representative from the Ministry at every corner. Her father congratulated her on making their lives so much easier as he handed her a suitcase.

The hotel was a massive building, the white granite blazing heat. An imposing frontage, marked with a gilded display of the battles that had taken place in Paris over the centuries, swords and lances proud in their arrangement, cast them under its shadow as they marched up the black, marble steps. Then they pushed their way through the swivelling glass doors and staggered across the plush carpets to the reception desk.

A rare childish impulse made Hermione step forward and slam her palm down onto the brass bell, which rang shrilly. As they waited, their luggage on the floor beside them, she glanced furtively around the hotel.

An ornate staircase swept up before them, its wooden banisters curving gently around as it rose to meet the landing. Sun filtered in through the rectangular windows each side of the entrance, thin beams flickering over the elaborate patterns on the carpet. A murmur of conversation hit Hermione, drifting over from the seats near the furthest window, where two men sat sipping from their wine glasses, the morning newspaper laid out in front of them and a sleek mobile phone poking over the top of the nearest's breast-pocket. One of them was old and grey, his skin wrinkled like decaying parchment, aging flesh clinging to a thin skeleton, the exact opposite of the dark, handsome man sitting next to him. As one, their heads swivelled to face Hermione and her parents – they smiled slightly before resuming their hushed conversation.

Hermione looked away, not wanting them to think she was spying. She traced a finger over the leaves dragging over the edge of the pots on top of the reception desk, even the bold greens and yellows of the plants looking rich and foreign.

Her father tapped her arm and pointed over the desk, where a portly, middle-aged man was shuffling towards them. 'If you wouldn't mind, sweet,' he muttered softy.

Mrs. Granger sighed. 'Why not just use your phrase book, dear?' she hissed. 'It's a lot safer for - '

'I shouldn't need to if my daughter is capable of translating for us!' He paused to take a deep breath. 'Look, I'm sorry. But Hermione doesn't exactly mind making life easier for her father. Do you, sweet?'

'No,' she said, looking to the floor as she mumbled a faint incantation.

The receptionist arrived, swaggering over the desk as he straightened his striped tie. 'Can I be of assistance?' he said in perfect English, despite his lips moving in a manner that suggested he was launching a frenzied attack on a choice piece of steak.

Mr. Granger took a step back, surprised by the effectiveness of the spell. He opened his mouth hesitantly; but his words became faster and more fluent as he realised the receptionist understood him as though he were speaking French.

'We're the Grangers. We've got a room booked for the next five days.'

'Excuse me for one moment, sir…' The receptionist stooped low as his gaze swooped over the list of bookings. 'Ah ha, I have it. You're in room 201, first down the left-hand corridor when you arrive on the second floor.' A smile showed polished white teeth as the key was handed over. 'And your daughter, I presume? She's booked for 205. I do hope that's all right.'

'That's fine, thanks.'

'Will you be dining in our restaurant tonight?'

'Err… no, thanks,' Hermione's father replied. 'We'll be going into the City and finding a restaurant ourselves, if that's not too much trouble.'

'No, sir, that's quite all right.' He handed Mr. Granger a long sheet of paper, crumpled around the edges. 'If you could just sign here to confirm your details.'

Mr. Granger scooped a ballpoint pen from his pocket and scribbled his signature over the dotted line, before passing the form back to the receptionist, who quickly ran his gaze down it.

'Everything appears to be in order sir. Please enjoy your stay.'

Hermione's father nodded in thanks as they picked up their magically lightened luggage and walked towards the stairs, turning right to head towards a corridor that branched off the hallway and led deeper into the building, hoping to find the lifts.

'_Bel endroit, ne pensez-vous pas si chéri_?'

Mrs. Granger stared at him quizzically, and then looked back to Hermione. 'I'd… deactivate the spell now.'

She nodded and clicked her fingers.

'I said, "Nice place, don't you think so darling?"'

'Yes, I suppose it is.'

'I can't wait to look around outside,' said Hermione as they reached the lifts and pressed to ascend.

'You're thinking of the museums, aren't you?' replied her mother with a grin.

'Of course. And certain other things…'

'The art galleries?'

'Not necessarily!'

The lift chimed, the doors sliding open with a hiss of escaping air.The family took their luggage and made their way into the small chamber, Hermione pressing for the second floor.

The doors shut with a gentle thud as the carriage slid upwards.

After leaving their cases outside the two rooms, the Grangers marched back down the long, lightly furnished corridor and hiked down the sweeping central staircase. They eventually found the bar, a small corner-room with pale wreaths of smoke hanging in the still air, with a long, low counter strung across the far wall. Upon discovering that it was far too late for a full lunch, Mr. Granger ordered sandwiches for the three of them, which they ate at a table spaced some distance from the others, after Hermione had, with a faint, half-hearted protest, removed the smell of cigarettes from the air.

They made their way back up to the second floor and stood outside Hermione's room.

'I suppose you can unpack your own things, right, dear?' her father inquired.

She nodded slowly. It wouldn't have done any good to do otherwise.

'Right,' said her mother. 'We'd best get on with ours. Okay? We'll give your room a ring when we're ready; then we can think about taking a look around outside.'

With that, her parents walked a little further down the corridor before disappearing into their own room. Hermione pulled open her door, letting it shut with a soft click as she pulled her bag into the chamber beyond.

A short corridor, with cupboards lining one wall and a small door that Hermione guessed led to the bathroom set into the other, opened out onto the room proper, which was spacey and square. A large bed, draped in patterned sheets, sat in the centre, with drawers and a desk opposite, an arched mirror above the television. A rectangular window afforded a brilliant view over the terraced rooftops around the hotel, the nearby districts of Paris spread out before her like tinker-toys, the Eiffel Tower looming over the horizon, plunging up from the ground like a giant icicle, the ant-like figures trapped in its shadow milling through the maze of streets. She smiled slightly as she stepped across towards the bed, the homely atmosphere of the room slowly dissolving her pent up angst.

Once inside, she sighed and threw herself down onto the bed, feeling the weariness seep from her bones as the mattress sunk to accommodate her weight. She laced her fingers together behind her head, staring up the ceiling and feeling sleep gnaw at her, beckoning temptingly. She doubted she had felt this relaxed before, outside the calmer, non-fatal periods at Hogwarts…

Her thoughts carried her away as a slight breeze drifted over the room, playing with the tails of the curtains, gently tickling the sheets…

When she opened her eyes again, an hour had passed. She could hear voices mix and echo at the edge of her consciousness, ring back and forth and clang about inside her head, but her mind was too blurred by fatigue to give further details.

With a half-stifled yawn, Hermione rolled over to one side, her hair spilling out around her. Her ears pricked as she detected the source of the voices, which she could now tell were brash and angry. She slowly turned, her eyes widening in alarm as she realised that the argument was coming through the wall opposite her, from her parents' bedroom.

'You shouldn't be doing this to her!'

'For the hundredth time, dear, doing _what_?'

'You know very well!'

'Just answer the question!'

'Do you have any idea about the rules that she lives with. With the rules all of them are governed by? Do you? _Do you_?'

'For goodness sake, dear – she's my daughter!'

'That doesn't mean you can use her like some… like some object!'

'Are you saying – '

'It doesn't really matter what I say, does it? Words won't change what's going on. It happens so often - you do it in so many ways - that it's just blatant.'

Rubbing at her eyes, waiting for the spots of colour wavering in front of her to fade into clarity, Hermione pushed herself to the edge of the bed and hopped onto the floor, subconsciously smoothing back the sheets over which she had clambered.

'How dare you - '

'You're _using_ her!'

'Are you saying I don't care about her?'

'No! Of course you care. She does all your chores for you. She makes every part of your life a thousand times easier. She says "yes", whenever you need someone to agree with your wild ideas. She can get you anywhere in the world, no trouble, no hassle - save for what would happen to her if she got caught. Why _wouldn't_ you care about her?'

The silence ringing back through the walls was almost as intimidating as the shouting.

Hermione crept forward, her heart pounding.

'Don't you dare talk to me like that.'

'It's about time someone did. The problem's only getting worse.'

'Problem? For the last time, what _problem_?'

'Don't tell me you can't _see_ what you're putting her through.'

'No, I can't! And why should I? I've heard _nothing_ from Hermione!'

Her stomach lurched. She felt physically sick, her surroundings rippling out of perspective as she felt her legs give way beneath her. The reality of what she was hearing had been battered into her skull by one, simple word. It was no longer snatches of an argument, heard through a wall, a barrier. It was the only solidarity her life had ever had breaking into jagged, knife-like fragments as she listened.

'Of course not. She's scared of you, can't you see that? She doesn't say, she can't, but inside she's terrified. The demands you're placing on her - '

'I'd love to know where all this rubbish is coming from.'

'A mother knows - '

'Barely an hour into France, and already the heaviest alcoholic would be proud of what you're spouting.'

More silence. Hermione could hear each heartbeat, each footstep tapping along the corridor outside, a whirl of confusion banging around inside her. She collapsed onto the carpet, a rising dampness meeting her fall, tears flowing in a sea around her cheeks.

'Say what you like. I'm not going to let my daughter be taken advantage of.'

'I'm _not_ taking advantage of her! I've raised her for the last thirteen years, nurtured her, fed her, clothed her. Bought her everything she needs to go to that place of hers! Don't you think I deserve a little back?'

'If you think you _deserve_ anything, I don't really imagine you've grasped the concept of parenting.'

'She can do things no other child can! Why shouldn't I make the most of it?'

'Will you never stop talking about her as though she's some tool of yours, some relic?'

'You just don't understand how well off we could be, do you?'

'Don't you dare talk about my daughter like that! She must mean so little to you… She must be almost worthless if continue to force her to take such risks…'

'That's the point! I've given her everything. _Everything. _It shouldn't be a question of _forcing_! She should be _begging_ me to let her help, begging me to let her take the risks - and to go on taking them until I'm satisfied!'

As she struggled to rise, wailing in her own tears, Hermione could hear hoarse, ragged breathing as one of the speakers fought to calm themselves.

'You just don't understand what she should mean to you, do you?'

'Dear - '

'Get out. Please… just go…'

Again, silence. Only there was nothing blissful about this pause. Each second dragged on, twisting in Hermione's gut.

A door banged shut. Heavy footsteps crashed against the floorboards, growing louder each second.

Hermione jumped to her feet, panic urging her on. She didn't know what exactly she was panicking about; she just knew with a mounting sense of dread that she couldn't face her father, not now. Her stomach looped and twirled as she boosted off towards the door, ripping it open and screaming as she ran.

'Hermione! You weren't meant to hear that…. Wait! Hermione!'

Her father's cries softened to a background moan as she leapt down the stairway.

Out of the hotel she fled, down the darkened streets, rain pounding into the pavement around her as she sprinted blindly on.

A dark tinge had approached from the South, black clouds roiling and jostling for space in the brooding sky as evening crept it.

Her hair whipped back and forth, spraying into her eyes as she charged onwards, unseeing. Winds clawed around her, her thin form charging down the roadways, her feet banging against the wet concrete, a hundred terrors sprouting from every shadow as she flung herself round each corner.

Fear left her senseless. She didn't know where she was going; and in some deep, primal way, she didn't care. All she could feel was the dampness through her clothes as she clouds spat at her, her chest seizing as her breath seeped from her body.

Roadways turned to thin, elongated alleys, the buildings capped with shadow and the blackness tightening like a noose around her desperate figure.

But still she ran, the shops and houses passing in a blur as her legs cartwheeled behind her.

Then, she hit something, invisible against the blackness, the breath knocked out from her in an instant.

She collapsed to the floor, landing in a thick puddle, the rain continuing to drum down against her skin, slapping against the concrete.

A thin, feminine body slipped out of the shadows.

'You're safe now, my dear. You're safe. We've been expecting you.'

# To be continued…


	3. Default Chapter Title

# Summer, Part 3

_ _

# By Locke

Reader's notes: Thanks to everyone who read the first two parts! It's definitely recommended that you read them before this, so if you missed them due to Thanksgiving, take a look! I hope you enjoy this part, but please review it no matter what you think! Anyway, things are about to get _weird_:

_The Enclave:_

_ _

Light gushed around Hermione like a torrent of raging water as consciousness slowly returned.

She moaned, her head throbbing. All she could feel was a dull pain coursing through it, and an ache stabbing at her neck. She reached instinctively to rub it, only to find that she couldn't move.

'It seems that she is awake.' The clear, pleasantly light voice rang all around her, soft and delicate.

Panicking, she tried to kick out. But her legs too were immobilised.

Afraid of what she was going to see, she slowly opened her eyes, surprised to find herself smothered in thick murk.

She was lying on a stone slab, a penetrating cold biting through her clothes and running down her spine as her senses gradually returned. Fear took her in its icy grip when she realised that her normal clothes had vanished, leaving her covered in a long, white gown, trailing from the slab and dipping into the pools of black that slithered along the rock floor.

Nervously, her eyes darted around her, her neck also unable to stretch an inch. She was in some sort of stone chamber, which she guessed was underground. The walls and ceiling were wrapped in blackness, shadow dripping in slow trickles down the stone that hemmed her in. Even in the inky darkness, she could make out vague patterns scrawled over the tiled floor and ceiling, like botched mosaics. Her breaths quickened as she suddenly realised how claustrophobic she could be. 

A shape stood on the edge of her vision, as foggy and indistinct as the afterimage of a blazing corona. She struggled to focus as it took a step forward, the noise ringing clearly round and round the chamber, each sound mixing with the previous until there was a single, confused hum.

'You're up already?' There was an unmistakably feminine chuckle. 'Do excuse me for stating the obvious; you've just proven yourself to be remarkably resilient.'

Her lips, split and cracked - despite her not being able to remember why they should be – opened and worked to form words, though only a dry croak emerged.

'You must let me apologise. The Binding spell was necessary for our secrecy to be maintained – and, by extension, for your own safety. I know, I know: so many questions. So typical of an Uninitiated - of any Mudblood, as a matter of fact.' There was a slight pause, during which Hermione felt the darkness closing in further, tendrils of gloom reaching out to claim her.

'But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, to remove the spell.'

Hermione watched as the shadows shifted, rippling around each other as though playing a warped game of chase as the figure coolly waved an arm. Her limbs tingled as a slight chill played over them, the numbness gradually fading to be replaced by a warm glow that suffused her body, as though she were being bathed in candlelight.

Hesitantly, she wriggled her fingers and toes. They moved perfectly, the pain gone, so she pushed her palms down against the stone and forced herself up into a sitting position. The figure watched her curiously, still invisible under the layers of shadow. A thousand questions raced through her mind as she stared around the chamber, not daring to stand, not even to speak, until she knew more about this place.

'You may talk, if you wish.'

She jumped back with a start. She fixed the figure with a glassy stare, her eyes widening silently. 'Where am - '

'I might have guessed that that would come first. So typical of your kind, to rush in, to ask all the wrong questions. Surely _I am the immediate threat, standing in front of you, able to paralyse you in an instant, obviously in the stronger position.' The words were calm and matter-of-fact, belying the underlying threat. 'The name of this place is merely a human construct – an idea, if you find that word easier to cope with. My presence is real no matter how you look at it.'_

Hermione sighed. 'Then who are you?'

'Again, you make assumptions. You assume I am something that can be classified in terms of your own species. I may not be. This would make the "who" redundant, make it more a question of "what"'. In time, you will come to learn these things, to take our teachings almost as second nature.' The murk twisted and swayed as the figure's thin, silhouetted lips curled into a smile. 'But to answer your question, I am Compassion.'

'That's a strange name.' Hermione felt a chill ripple down her back as the shadows gusted around her in spirals.

'It may be. Yet it is what I'm called, what I am.'

She inched forward on the slab, her eyes slowly flicking from left to right as she squinted through the wrappings of blackness.

'You want to know how to escape?'

Hermione stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

A strange whoosh of air gusted past her, light streaming along the walls as thin jets of flame flew overhead. In the corner of the room, the darkness chased away by the red and orange teeth that snapped at it, she could see the foot of a spiral staircase, hewn from the stone wall and twisting away into the gloom.

'We don't want to keep you here through force. We will if we have to, you must understand. But we'd like you to realise for yourself that remaining here is for the best.'

'Who – who is "we"?'

'Myself and the rest of the Enclave. Again, the name is meaningless. It is little more than a label for an idea. The idea remains the same, regardless of the label. But the Enclave is what we call ourselves, what we say to outsiders. A label often makes an idea easier to digest, in our experience. I am but a small part of the Enclave; I search for people like yourself; deliver you to the others.'

Hermione frowned. Words were seeping into her skull, penetrating her mind in a random order, in a confused jumble. Memories and ideas about the future rang back, impossible to decipher amongst thick, mocking laughter. She sat forward, eager to hear what Compassion was saying, despite not really following. Her soft, clear voice grasped her attention, as though fixing her with an icy stare, daring her to shun what it was saying, yet also as though embracing her and drawing her closer. The warmth of the sweet tones was almost hypnotic.

'Tell me, Hermione. What are you?'

'A…' Her mind searched for the term. 'A Mudblood?'

'Why?'

_- A flash of light breezed over here, a dazzling spray of gold melting to leave the image of Malfoy leering at her, his lips twisted in a sneer as he cursed what she was –_

_'But that isn't what you are.'_

- _She could feel hands pushing down on her, forcing her into the ground, the word being spat at her as the ferocity pressed her under, a jagged grin scrawled over the faces of her attackers, baying in the joy of her pain - _

'You are not a Mudblood. You a person, Hermione, a witch who happens to have Muggle parents. The idea behind the word Mudblood may be an _aspect of you, but it is not what you __are.'_

'I… I suppose not…' She tried to judge the distance between her the staircase, watching the slivers of light snake over the steps, coalescing into single smudges of colour as they mixed and swirled.

'Why let the prejudiced ideas of other people define you?'

Suddenly, in a burst of golden flame, the lights dimmed.

'You are thinking of escape.'

'No - '

'There is no need to fear. Many of the Uninitiated think of fleeing. It merely means I have failed to adjust you properly.'

'Why am I here?'

'Still, you ask all the wrong questions.'

'Where is here? And before you say it doesn't matter, it matters to _me.'_

'I am impressed by your stubbornness, if nothing else.'

'Look,' said Hermione, waving a finger into the blackness, trying to convince herself that it was Harry or Ron standing there, battling to rope her into some fool plan of theirs. 'Why not just tell me what's going on? You've obviously brought me here for some reason; and I'm obviously important to you, else you wouldn't have gone to the trouble of keeping me alive.' 

'Perhaps you do deserve an explanation.'

'Thank you.'

'I am not trying to frighten you. Your death would be an unfortunate loss, both to you and the Enclave.'

'I'll take that as a complement.'

'Most wise.'

'I don't really have any choice in the matter though, do I?'

'Not as such, no.'

Suddenly, a thought struck Hermione, as sudden and as terrifying as a fork of lightening crashing through the clouds. 'Why… Why can't I remember how I got here?'

'Think, Hermione.'

'I remember… I remember coming to Paris with my parents… Then finding the hotel… Then I must have gone out to take a look around… There's nothing more. I don't remember anything else. Nothing definite.' A tremor of fear had crept into her voice.

'Hmmm… The Enclave must be shielding you from your thoughts.'

'What?'

'There is no point in looking for answers that are not there, Hermione. And whatever answers I may be able to provide, certainly do not lie here.'

The shadows clinging to the figure folded back like dying storm clouds, hissing and fading to a fine powder that fell to the floor, gathering in a tidy pile like fresh snow. 

Hermione's features spread in silent awe as Compassion stepped closer, holding out an arm. The woman looked like any normal human in her twenties, though tall and slender, her limbs long and her features fey and refined. High-cheekbones, dark eyes that absorbed the surrounding light like pools of blackness, lips that looked made to pout reddened by a thin, subtle tinge of lipstick and long, black hair settling in curls around her neck complemented an image of beauty. Her skin was slightly tanned, seeming to glow a pale, orangey brown as the dull light washed over it. She was dressed like any normal businesswoman, a dark grey jacket buttoned up over a black, low-cut dress that reached just above her knees, the mystical air around her subdued by her costume, which would easily let her walk unchallenged through the heart of Paris. 

As Compassion moved towards the stone slab, Hermione found herself admiring the quiet, unstressed sense of presence the woman commanded. She took Compassion's hand and hopped down from the slab, swathes of black swinging aside for her.

Compassion strode in silence across the room, her heels clicking against the stone. She paused at the foot of the staircase, gesturing upwards.

'Do you wish to see what the Enclave holds?'

Hermione found curiosity swamping her senses, absorbing any notions about what might be safe or for the best. Instead of giving way to the hesitant pangs of fear, - instead of pushing the woman aside and charging away from this place - she nodded.

'Very well. Then I shall show you - so you can make up your own mind. Come.'__

The stairs wound round and around, twisting in spirals as they climbed forever upwards, leaving Hermione so disorientated she could barely tell whether she was coming or going, her legs, heavy like lead, moving almost mechanically. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, despite Compassion, marching ahead, seemingly tireless.

Now she was away from the oppressive chill of the stone chamber, Hermione began to notice how warm the air was. The heat that emanated from the bare, cracked stonework suggested that they were some way underground, the flames of the molten rocks seeping through into the complex.

'How – How much further?' panted Hermione, her heart knifed by fire.

'Not far,' Compassion stated serenely. Hermione, sweat dripping from her forehead and her hair matted down by dampness, noticed that the woman's skin was perfectly clear and dry.'We are nearing the centre of the Enclave.'

As they continued upwards, Hermione's skin beginning to glisten with sweat in the gentle light of the torches hanging from the wall, slow dripping became audible, of water trickling in tiny drops along the stone. She slowly craned her neck around, searching for the source – but she could see nothing, as though the sound had been added for effect.

Panting heavily, her muscles almost frozen from the exertion, Hermione sighed gratefully as she felt a cool breeze play over her skin. The stairs became shallower, rounding off to a low ramp as they met a solid wooden door, an iron handle beckoning.

Her hand reached out tentatively, hovering over the metal.

'Open the door,' said Compassion quietly, like a mother trying to reassure an afraid child. 'But be ready.'

Her arm shook as she grasped the cold metal and pulled open the door.

There was no sensation of movement, no noticeable passing of time. One second, the stiff creak of the door was scratching in her ears; the next, she was in another place entirely.

Compassion and Hermione stood in a deserted bar, eerily lit by candles with pale, quivering flames that snapped at the air and cast a shivering glow over their surroundings. Everything was made from planks of furnished wood: the floorboards creaked as she slowly turned her gaze; and the bar, stretching across the far wall, was polished oak.

It looked very much like the common room of the Three Broomsticks, only there were no patrons and a deathly hush had descended like a suffocating cobweb over the air. 

'Take a seat,' Compassion whispered, pointing to a nearby table. They sat down opposite each other.

'Is… is this the Enclave?'

'It depends. I would assume that it is, for you at least. Different people bring different memories; and the fabric of reality here is so thin and brittle that it is easily distorted.'

Suddenly, Hermione caught a flash of a man standing by the bar, as still and lifeless as a broken puppet. An instant later, he was gone, and a cold breeze swept over the room.

'We are on the edge of something big, Hermione. A force so large and so brilliant in scope that it must be guarded, must be kept in check.'

A body appeared on the floor beside Hermione, thin and pale, his flesh flickering in the dull light. His face a mask of blood, he stared at her through empty, sightless eyes, his soul a pit of misery. Then, as light gusted across her view, he was gone.

'Tell me where we are.'

'In the strictest geographical terms, we are below Paris. In actuality, we are… somewhere else.'

Hermione sighed. 'If you want me to do whatever it is I've been brought here for, you have to be more specific.'

'I cannot explain in any terms you would easily understand or accept. The Enclave isn't like anything that you have seen before. Your mind finds it impossible to take what it is being shown; it takes advantage of the fragile nature of reality, bending it into something it finds acceptable, denying it.'

Her gaze drifted around the bar. 

'Your mind is already collapsing under the pressure of filtering what it sees. Already you are seeing afterimages of what happened here.'

She pondered this for a moment. 'The man by the bar, I get.' She smiled. 'I come here with my friends all the time.' Her forehead knotted in thought. 'But… what about the body?'

'The things that happened here are not simply confined to your own reality, Hermione. That is why what I must show you is so hard to accept.'

'Then just show it to me! Playing games with my mind won't make it any easier.'

'I accept your point,' replied Compassion, sitting forward so that a shadow fell over the table. 'Then, if you are ready.'

Hermione nodded.

A small globe appeared in the woman's palm, lighting her face with pearls of brilliance. The intensity of the light grew, slowly, as a low hum permeated the air. Then, a brilliant flash of white blew outwards, drowning all else.

A roaring, howling wind greeted their arrival.

As quickly as the walls of the inn dissolved around them, a vague, distorted dreamscape hissed into being.

Hermione was standing on the top of a rickety wooden watchtower, bobbing in a sea as black and as still as ice, Compassion beside her. Featureless grey waves stretched out as far as she could see, bare and bland, rolling silently as they crawled along the twilight landscape.

She looked up to the sky and nearly fainted. She gripped the gnarled railings.

All above her, streaks of colour floated around at random, the shades distorted as though by static, hissing and crackling as they drifted. Bands of blue and red looped around each other, floating in silent swirls. Black, green and orange smudges blurred into one as they flickered in and out of being, twisting with the gold and the silver into a fractal mess, a broken, nightmare patchwork of colours that swam and lurched overhead.

'Look to your right.'

Numbly, Hermione obeyed.

The icy sea came to an end a mile or towards the horizon. The seams of the material were ripped along the edges, where the sea dipped and met a grand vista of loping hills, all covered by the glow of the sky. Beyond them, further on, sat a canyon, milky and indistinct, a harsh black and white beneath the maelstrom of colour. 

A fierce roar echoed in the distance. Hermione could hear the sound of fighting, the sound of wild terror as people died.

A moment later, the hills were smothered in the dead of night. Broken bodies lay across the blackened grass, a wreath of flesh that seemed to blot out the lights shining above.

'What - '

'The world that lies on the other side is in chaos and disorder.'

'Another world?'

'Yes, eight years ahead of your own but otherwise nearly identical, though already steeped in blood. The barrier is weakening. Two parallel lines may never meet – yet, somehow…'

'You come from there?'

'In a manner of speaking. The Enclave was built to guard your world from the chaos, to keep it in check, in the world where it belonged. If the circumstances the spawned the War repeat themselves…'

'We're standing on the overlap between two dimensions?'

'You learn fast, Hermione.'

'Why… Why is the other world being destroyed? How did the War come about?'

Compassion silently shook her head, her face a mask of sadness. 'Some things you cannot yet know. I cannot reveal everything so soon.'

'Please.'

'I can take you through the barrier, out onto the other side of the Enclave. My powers will allow that. There you can see for yourself. Discover why I have been tracking you. It may ready you for what you must come to terms with.'

'You've already told me I have little choice…'

'Indeed.'

'You'd kill me here?'

'I never said I would kill you, Hermione. I merely said that if you refuse to come with me, if you go back to your old life, you will die. There is a difference.'

She sighed. Flaming jets of colour rippled in the sky, streaming past her as she pondered. The scenes laid out before her, a grainy, black and white confusion of images, bent until crooked and flashed in a haze of silver. Howls of agony rent the horizon, greeted in reply by the lonely, angry wind.

'Okay. I'll come with you. I'll see what I have to see.'

Compassion took hold of Hermione's hands and jumped off the platform, where the garbled sea rose to meet them, widening as though waiting to feed. The whole dreamscape folded around them as consciousness slipped away. 

_To be continued…_


	4. Default Chapter Title

Summer, Part 4

By Locke

Authors Note: I'm aware this may be controversial, but I'm trying to make this series a little different and I really want to know what you think, so please review it, even if it is to flame wildly! As ever, it's best to read the earlier parts first, and enjoy!

_Through the Looking Glass:_

_ _

_ _

Professor Albus Dumbledore sat at his rickety wooden desk, a pen clutched between two gnarled, wrinkled fingers. He sighed wearily as his gaze wavered over the mountains of paperwork, building up in long, loping rows and spilling over the clutter of the desk.

He blinked as he scanned the first sheet. A tear would have seeped from his eye and slid down his cheek, if he were not already hollow, already dried out.

The curtains over the steamed glass window shivered in a sudden breeze. Dumbledore felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the red material quiver and then straighten.

_Hermione wheeled around in amazement._

_Compassion touched her lightly on the arm. 'Be still. Observe. Much has changed.'_

_'This is – this is Dumbledore's office. We're in Hogwarts!' Her face lit up with delight._

_'Take a closer look. Yes, this is the place you remember as Hogwarts. But you must remember that in this reality, events have taken a turn for the worse.'_

Slowly, Hermione stepped forward. Then she realised that the cracked floorboards made no movement under her weight.

_'Do not fear; he cannot see us. We are not yet corporeal. The Enclave thought it fit to let you see more of this place, before taking you through.'_

_Her head turned silently from left to right.Already it was clear that something bad, something very out of the ordinary – or at least what was ordinary to her reality – was happening here. The walls and the shelves were coated in a fine layer of dust, as though they had been left to decay. The lamp in the far corner was split, fitful bursts of light crackling over the scene. The wood of the desk was splintered and rotting, one of the legs propped up by an old book. Shadows owned the far corners, mess and debris smothered in blackness._

_Then, Hermione noticed Dumbledore himself. Though old anyway, his features had lost their vitality. He was tired and weary, his skin loose and clinging desperately to a shrunken skull. His eyes, usually so alive with energy, were pale and sunken, as though the horrors they had been exposed to had made them wish that they saw no more. His face was unshaven, lines of stubble scarring his features. And his hair - in Hermione's reality a gentle, fey silver - was grey and fading, falling in patches._

__A sudden knock at the door snapped Dumbledore from his reverie.

__'Come in.'

He held up an arm, moving as though he were going to run it through his untidy hair. Then, he sighed and let it drop back to the table.

The door opened with a stiff creak.

_For an instant, Hermione could see into the corridor. Pools of blackness were scattered along the corridor, where the walls were damaged as though from fire. Piles of debris were scattered randomly, and the floorboards again were splintered and rotten._

__A young man entered, his clothes torn and tattered. He marched over to Dumbledore and made a half-hearted attempt to salute.

'Don't worry, soldier. It isn't worth the effort.'

The man managed a sad smile.

'What do you have to report?'

'The Muggles think they have found our outpost. They are gathering in the hills to the East even as we speak. This time, they may have found us.'

_Hermione balked. 'Muggles? Are they involved in this war you spoke of?'_

_Compassion nodded. 'They are the antagonists. Or, maybe, the _pro_tagonists. There are two sides to every coin, Hermione.'_

_'_What_?'_

_'Listen.'_

__Any trace of hope that might have shone behind the despair in Dumbledore's gaze flickered away. 'Then we may be finished.'

'How can you speak like that, Minister?'

'Because I see precious little that might give me any cause to speak otherwise… For four long years, we've fought! The science of the Muggles is almost a magic of its own, whilst the major victories won by our side can be counted on one hand.'

'What about the Hogsmeade Liberation? What about Portsmouth Harbour?'

'If the Muggles have found Hogwarts, soldier, than everything we've worked to protect will count for naught.'

'Sir…' The soldier sighed grimly, hanging his head low, the impact of his news finally being enforced by his leader's reaction to it.

Dumbledore placed his hands together on the desk, staring up at the soldier. 'Are we sure of the news?'

The soldier shut his eyes and whispered a prayer. 'As sure as we need to be.'

Dumbledore held up his hands, placing them over his eyes and running them down his face. He stood, slowly, moving his chair back perfectly in front of the desk. He stood as tall and as proud as he could, his gaze fixed on the dirty, tarnished crest that hung on the far wall.

'Are Potter and Diggory waiting in barracks?'

'Yes.'

'Then,' said Dumbledore, his eyes shining in the dark and a lump rising in his throat, 'I suggest we prepare for evacuation.'

???

Hermione said nothing as Dumbledore and the soldier left the room.

Compassion waved an arm, and everything became solid. 

'It's safe now. Take a look around.'

In the real, material light, everything looked even more decrepit, even more decadent, as though the owner had simply given up on maintaining the homely atmosphere that should have pervaded and let nature take its course. Streams of dust flitted through the musty air, staining all they touched.

'What… what's going on here?'

'You've heard enough clues, Hermione. I've given you pieces enough to complete the puzzle.'

She stopped, her heart beating quickly and inconsistently as she said the words, feeling them burn her lips. 'The Muggles and the wizards are at war…'

'Correct.'

'For four years?'

'Again, correct. It started not long before, when the existence of magic was leaked to the public.' Compassion wandered in a slow circle around the desk, her finger tracing lines in the dust. 'You will learn more about those circumstances, when you are ready to hear it.'

'Why - '

'There was mass panicking, riots in the streets. Houses were burnt to the ground. People were lynched and slaughtered in their sleep. The Ministry fought to contain it, but there was no chance of them wiping enough memories. Remember the hysteria surrounding the witch-hunt period in Salem? You should, you had twenty periods of lessons devoted to it.' 

'I do.'

'That was like a candle, this like an inferno. It swept the country, and then news travelled from Europe to Asia and America…'

Hermione looked to the ceiling. 'Why couldn't they get on…?'

'The public were not ready to come to terms with it.' Compassion strode back the front of the desk, straightening her black business jacket in the smeared, cracked mirror. 'The Government declared a state of emergency.' Her heels clicked against the floorboards as she turned back to Hermione. 'Within a year, the world was at war. You might think that magic gives an unfair advantage, but science can appear just as magnificent, and be just as potent a tool of destruction: the hydrogen bomb dropped on Durmstrang killed millions. Now the front lines are drawn across the world. The men and women there are trapped in hell; thousands are falling each day. Just as many bodies lie riddled with bullets or burnt into chunks of flesh as do slain by the forces of magic. Each day, new inventions appear that can block the wizards' powers altogether.'

'Okay…' muttered Hermione, her breaths coming faster as beads of sweat fell from her forehead. The words washed over her, ideas cluttering in chaos inside her mind. 'You… The soldier called Dumbledore "Minister"…'

'The Wizards needed a base of operations. The ideal locations were the magical schools, which were already shielded from prying Muggle eyes. Hogwarts quickly became the European War Office. Cornelius Fudge was one of the first casualties; he was shot dead at a public conference at the start of the war. Dumbledore, as the man who had led Hogwarts for many, many years before its conversion into the War Office, was chosen as his logical successor. Now he is nothing more than a broken shell.'

Hermione shook her head. 'You're lying. I won't accept anything you're telling me. It's impossible. It's so unreal.'

'I'm not telling you anything, Hermione. I am presenting you with fact.'

Bright red, Hermione spun around, her hands clenching into fists. 'This isn't happening!'

'It has already happened.'

'_No_!'

'The Muggles have slowly beaten the magic users back across England. New bands of refugees arrive here everyday, grateful for having escaped. But the Muggles' are following them. They want Hogwarts, the final outpost of the English Wizards; and they're moving in fast. The front lines are tightening around us. My current estimation tells me that this place will be taken or destroyed before the week has ended.'

'If you know all this, why don't you stop it?' Hermione cried.

Compassion shook her head. 'It's not my place.'

'Why should I be any different?'

'You don't understand. It isn't yet time for you to learn of the war's origins. You must just accept it.'

'How can I accept _this_?'

She sighed, tired of arguing. 'I did not want you to see this, Hermione.'

Compassion stepped smoothly over to the window. And with one strong tug, she grasped the curtains and wrenched them from the railing.

'Oh…' whispered Hermione, a hand to her mouth. 'No…'

The grounds and surroundings of Hogwarts were laid out before her. But they were like nothing she had ever seen.

The land that stretched out to the horizon was a fractal mess, earth torn into rugged tatters and turned crimson red by the blood spilled over it. Burnt, jagged craters pockmarked the landscape, some still smoking. A wind whistled through the desolation, touching the lonely scrubs. The front line was clearly visible, a giant gash through the ruined landscape, bodies strewn around it where they had fallen. There were no trees, save for broken shells that reached with blackened, skeletal branches for the dead sky, and no greenery – and black forms wheeled in the sky, giving voice to the scene with their shrill cry. She could see nothing human in front of her. Where, in her reality, was a glistening lake, here was a chunk of ripped land, debris piled high on other side by the blast that had destroyed it. The forest that should have been to her left was a desert, charred remains half-buried by dust and dirt. Lines of nothing, where the land had simply turned to rubble, snaked across at their leisure. The sky that drifted in patches overhead was aflame, burning in the chaos beneath. Barriers of mud lay tangled with the split, cracked earth, completing the image of a surreal, nightmare dreamscape, a place where no man or woman should have had to go, where angles would have feared to tread.

A tear rolled down Hermione's face. She felt her legs give way beneath her.

'Welcome to the other world.'

_???_

Dumbledore and the soldier marched side-by-side, alone, down the empty corridors, listening to the pain this place had endured echo all around them.

'Are we going to give up, Sir?'

'I don't know, soldier. We have little choice. We must evacuate this place immediately. Did you see the reports they sent from Durmstrang? I won't have that happen to my school… I _can't_ see that happen…'

'Who's to say the Muggles won't blast us down as we leave?'

'Nothing, soldier.' Dumbledore stared at his through glassy eyes. 'Absolutely nothing.'

'Surely we must have some plan, some backup, some fallback…'

'The Ministry never prepared for anything like this.'

'But _you_ did, surely!'

He stopped, breathing slowly, letting the air go gradually in and out. 'There is one plan.'

'Really?' A ray of hope broke through the soldier's mask of despair. 

'I will evacuate all non-essential personal; get this place running on a skeleton crew. The Muggles camped on the hills to the East will see we are down to the barest military personal; they will ignore the evacuees and head for Hogwarts.'

'But - '

'_Listen_. A single part of the convoy will break away and double back, approaching the Muggles from the rear. We can hold out in here for three more days, maybe four. The Muggles can easily withstand a concentrated magical attack, but two of our lot - two brave, experienced soldiers - could easily slip between their lines and deactivate their defences…'

The soldier shut his eyes and turned away. 'I know who you have in mind, sir.'

'They're our best soldiers, like it or not.'

'Potter's barely eighteen!'

'He's the best we have. With Diggory's experience - '

'Our one veteran? Potter will get him killed. It isn't worth the risk.'

'_What else do you suggest man_?'

'I – I'm sorry.' He avoided Dumbledore's wide, wild glare. 'I'm just afraid…'

Dumbledore sniffed and blinked. 'We all are, soldier. None of us have any cause not to be.'

Suddenly, the entire corridor rocked as a thunderous explosion lit the distance.

'What the hell was that?'

'The Muggles must be on the move again…'

'We have to get a move on, if we want even a chance of survival…'

_???_

Back in the office, Compassion moved towards Hermione. 

'Do you wish to see more? Or are you convinced?'

'Show me what you like.' Hermione turned away from the window, greeting Compassion's questioning glance with one of cold dismissal. 'You'll never convince me that _that_ is real.'

'Tell me,' said Compassion thoughtfully. 'Who is your best friend?'

'Ron,' she replied automatically. 'And Harry, of course.'

'Ron Weasley?' Compassion's voice softened. 'On his Eighteenth birthday, Ron was conscripted into the Phoenix battalion. Five weeks ago, he was posted to the frontline in Belgium, just two days before a major Muggle advance. The fields were blasted to pieces. Along with the rest of his battalion, Ron Weasley has been declared missing, presumed dead.'

'No - '

'You said this isn't real, Hermione.'

'But - '

'Only now are you seeing how _real_ it is.'

'Why on earth have you brought me here? What can you hope to gain by torturing me?'

'I'm offering you a chance of salvation, Hermione! I've asked you to trust me, until I feel you are ready to learn more! I can give you an identity; incorporate you properly into this reality, for a time. Then, you can go about at your leisure and understand what you see.'

Hermione gulped nervously. 

'Remember, your life may depend on unravelling these mysteries. What is your answer?'

# To be continued…


End file.
